I’ve recently had the realization that it is highly to very likely that I will never be good enough.

Not for other people. No, no, no. Other people aren’t a factor in this equation. Other people don’t matter. I don’t really give a damn what other people have to say to me. (Although like, please compliment me. I don’t get words of affirmation very often except from strange men on Twitter and Instagram who I think are just hoping I have enough daddy issues to give them my number.)

I’m talking about for myself. I’m never going to be good enough for myself.

Take today for instance.

Today I ran for a half hour, scheduled two full days on social media, wrote two pieces (over 3600 words respectively) published 11 others, answered probably 20 emails, formatted the beginning of a project, completed another, posted twice in a community I’m a part of, and took my dog on 4 walks.

But that doesn’t seem like enough. I still have laundry to do. And I only took 10,000 steps instead of 12. I could’ve published 15 pieces. I could’ve written another that might go viral and given me a bunch more views. I haven’t checked Tinder in weeks so I’m probably going to die alone. I have Tinder so I’m DEFINITELY going to die alone.

See what I’m getting at is, I’m never going to measure up.

What I’m getting at, is that I kind of (very much so) hate myself.

Somewhere, there is this perfect me that I’ve concocted in my head. Her apartment is always clean, she excels at work, she’s in the perfect relationship, Twitter never rejected her verification request, her roots never grow in, she doesn’t get zits, she’s always fair and never impulsive, everyone admires her, she isn’t afraid of driving, she has a 6 month emergency fund, she never falls asleep with candles burning. She’s essentially me but the exact opposite.

She’s everything I’m never going to be.

And I hate myself for that.

I hate that can be so calm about hating myself. That I can just shrug it off like it’s normal. That I don’t remember the last time I was in a, “The world is bright and shiny!” kind of mood.

I hate that feeling disappointed in myself is my base level. My starting point. My 8 AM Monday through Friday (and most Saturdays when I let myself be a lazy sack of shit).

The truth is, I kind of hate myself. And I think that might just be part of life.

I talk a pretty good game about “no one can love you until you love yourself” aka: just quoting RuPaul because I am garbage. But truth is I love myself with an iron fist. With an, “I KNOW YOU CAN DO SO MUCH BETTER THAN THIS WHY ARE YOU A CONSTANT DISAPPOINTMENT.” I am my own metaphorical dad, standing over myself seeing an A-, and inquiring endlessly about why I think I didn’t earn an A.

I’m trying to be enough. But even “enough” these days feels like a dirty word. Because more is more and more is better and more means waking up and feeling accomplished. Feeling happy. Feeling satisfied.